White Throat Page 25

  ‘What the?’ said Mike as she grabbed his arm.

  ‘Now! The guy in the photograph. He’s here. He’s a killer.’

  ‘Piss off,’ he said, shrugging her arm away. Oh God, the story she’d told, why would Mike believe her now?

  ‘No, no, I mean it. Quick!’ she was pleading, terror in her eyes, pulling at his arm.

  Mike pushed her off again. ‘Go and hide if you want but it’s my place, I’ve done nothing wrong and I’m not hiding,’ he said, his legs spread wide and his arms primed away from his body, like a boxer, ready for the bell.

  The sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel outside. Oh shit. Oh shit.

  ‘Then…then just act natural,’ she said, backing away towards the office. ‘Tell him I’ve gone up the street for a burger. And whatever you do, don’t tell him you told me his name!’ She ran full pelt for the office and shut the door behind her, heart pumping.

  How did Jackson know she was here? She’d told no one where she was going; she was sure she hadn’t been followed.

  She peered through the open window. Mike was standing at the counter looking confused. Do something Mike, anything but just stand there, please. She saw a man’s shadow approaching the hangar. Mike seemed to pull himself together, picked up a pen from the box, leaned on the counter, began writing something on the notepad as the shadow became a human form, silhouetted in the wide hangar doorway.

  She ducked her head down even though she knew she couldn’t be seen from outside the office. Sarge was going off outside, but he must have stayed where he was. She checked around her. A second door, on the other side of the office, leading outside to the carpark. She had to contact Wiseman, warn her. She pulled out her phone, turned it to silent, found the contact and typed:

  Jackson is here. He’s seen my car. Danger!

  She peeked out the window again. They were talking. She could just hear their voices. Jackson was saying something about the chick driving the Commodore wagon. Mike pointed in the direction of the takeaway shop. She couldn’t see their facial expressions. Sarge had stopped barking.

  She tapped in another text, her thoughts darting all over the shop. How good a liar was Mike? If Mike said she’d gone up the street, would Jackson leave and wait for her somewhere?

  She pressed send on the second text to Wiseman: I’m in the office 2 the right. He doesn’t know I’m here. Sarge is out front. The hangar manager…Mike…is talking to him at front counter. Be careful!

  She checked the time. Wiseman ought to be here any minute. A roll of sweat trickled down her forehead and onto the side of her face. Her shirt stuck to her back. She started scrolling through her contacts for Constable Griffin’s number. As she got to the Gs she heard the sound of a car out front and looked out. A police vehicle rolled into view.

  Oh God. Did she get the text?

  She watched as Jackson turned, saw the car, yelled at Mike, ‘Fucking liar!’ It took him three steps to get around the counter, whipping a gun out from the back of his trousers.

  ‘Hey, hey, hold on, mate.’ Mike threw his hands skyward.

  Jackson grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, gun levelled at his temple. ‘Don’t give me any trouble, mate. You’re dead meat if you do.’

  He positioned Mike between him and the door, began walking him backwards towards the choppers, his eyes on the doorway facing the carpark.

  ‘Where’s the keys to the R44?’ he snapped as they passed the office.

  ‘In the ignition,’ said Mike, his voice shaky.

  ‘Fuel?’

  ‘Half a tank.’

  Clem’s hands were trembling on the phone. Should she rush out, warn Wiseman? Too late—Wiseman appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Keep your hands away from the gun, sergeant, or this guy cops it,’ Jackson yelled. Mike’s eyes were bulging, his face white as chalk.

  Wiseman stopped, frozen, her arms held out from her body, away from her gun. She looked tiny.

  ‘Not a good idea, Jackson,’ she said, without flinching. ‘Gonna get you in worse trouble.’

  Clem’s heart leapt at the sound of her voice—no more ruffled than if she’d sprung a teenager breaking into a lolly shop.

  ‘Just keep your hands clear—that’s it, out wide—and no one gets hurt,’ Jackson snarled.

  ‘I can’t let you do this, you know that,’ said Wiseman. ‘Let the man go and put the gun down. You’ve got so much to lose doing something stupid like this.’

  ‘Shut up!’ yelled Jackson.

  ‘His name’s Mike.’ She had got the text. Why hadn’t she waited for back up? Trying to make up for her mistake? ‘Got a family, Mike?’

  ‘Yeah. Wife, two little boys,’ said Mike, voice trembling, barely audible.

  ‘Hear that Jackson? Judge’ll go for those victim statements. That’s years on your sentence, maybe a couple for each kid.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ he yelled.

  ‘Bet you’re ropeable things have got so out of hand. Shooting at old ladies…embarrassing,’ said Wiseman. ‘But you can reel it in now…save yourself even more embarrassment. Put the gun down.’

  God, she was ice cool. C’mon Wiseman, you’ve got this.

  ‘You know we’ll find you. We’ll track you down. Come on Jackson, there’s better options than this.’ Wiseman took two steps forward.

  ‘Stand back!’ yelled Jackson, continuing to back away past the chopper inside the hangar and towards the one on the tarmac.

  ‘Let’s talk it through. Just hold up there, Jackson, and we can talk it through.’ She took two more steps.

  So gutsy.

  He kept moving backwards, tucked behind Mike with the gun pressed up hard on the manager’s head.

  ‘All right. Let me lay out the facts, then. Where are you going to land?’ Another two steps forward, her hand hovering over the holster on her hip. Moving closer for the shot. ‘You think you can just take off and disappear? Air traffic control are already on it.’

  God, Clem hoped so.

  ‘You’ll be tracked to within a millimetre. Wherever you land, there’ll be a SOG team waiting for you.’

  Was she bluffing? Maybe they could lock in on it. Clem ducked down, started typing a text to Griffin. Her fingers fumbling over the screen, her breath coming shallow and short as she typed. Jackson’s here at Turners Aviation hangar. Gun and hostage. Wiseman in danger. Get air traffic control to track R44. And get here. Fast!

  She pressed send and began to stand up again. As her eyes rose above the window ledge, she caught movement from the carpark—Sarge, moving slowly but purposefully towards the hangar. He’d broken the string. He must’ve heard the raised voices, knew Clem was in there. The switch had been flicked. She couldn’t breathe.

  Sarge paused, listened. His flanks twitching, eyes bright, on high alert. Then he extended his throat, head pushing forward, letting out a single growl as he set off at a canter, his shape appearing in the doorway, picking up speed, gums drawn back, top and bottom fangs like icepicks, galloping now, straight for Jackson. Clem threw open the office door, then everything happened at once. Jackson swung his gun towards the dog; Mike seized the moment and twisted himself out of Jackson’s grip with a loud grunt, jerking Jackson’s gun arm as a shot rang out. Wiseman drew her gun and took aim at Jackson. Another shot. Sarge shying at the sound, his claws skidding on the concrete just outside the office as Clem lunged for his collar, screaming his name. Two more shots, and then Wiseman was falling backwards, a look of surprise on her face and a crimson flower spreading across the front of her shirt, collapsing to the floor. Her head hit the concrete and bounced. Her cap came off and rolled to one side.

  Clem screamed. Jackson was on the floor, pushing himself up on one knee, injured, turning his body. Mike was laid out halfway to the counter, then he was crawling, scrambling to his feet, running out the back of the hangar and disappearing to the right.

  Wiseman’s eyes…

  Like the woman in the car crash, her head on the
steering wheel, blood in her hair…the eyes…vacant.

  Jackson swung his gun hand towards her. Clem felt the surge of adrenaline, the backs of her hands prickling and her heart racing as she tugged Sarge into the office and slammed the door behind them. She raced to open the door that led outside and ran, yelling at Sarge to come. She sprinted for the car, the dog right behind her, flinging open the back door of the Commodore.

  ‘Get in, Sarge!’

  She saw the hesitation in his eyes. He slowed, stopped halfway to the car, then turned back towards the hangar, planting his front paws wide, standing guard. He wasn’t going to move. He was too big to lift.

  She jumped into the back seat, yelling, ‘Sarge, come!’ He glanced over his shoulder at her, took one last look back at the hangar and then swivelled and launched himself into the car as she scrambled into the driver’s seat and took off, the back door still swinging open and Jackson appearing in her rearview mirror, gripping his leg. A shot hit the back of the car as she spun the tyres in a tight one-eighty, now pointing towards the carpark exit. She slammed her foot down on the accelerator as another shot shattered the rear window.

  She was away now, and in the mirror she saw Jackson moving painfully, dragging his leg, towards the white ute.

  Wiseman. Fuck. Oh fuck. Ambulance. Searching for her phone as she reached ninety k’s down the narrow road. Where the hell? Shit! She’d dropped it on the floor of the office when she grabbed for Sarge’s collar.

  Griffin will be on his way. He’ll be there soon. But Wiseman was dead. No: Wiseman wasn’t dead, she had to think that. Griffin would be there. Mike would call an ambulance. She forced herself to switch her mind to her own situation.

  Where to? The terminal? Lots of people there. No, there’d be no one there at this time of the day, the daily flight from Sydney was hours away. Police station? No one there. Not a fucking soul in this two-cop backwater. She would pass Griffin coming from Barnforth, though. The relief. Then the switch flicked to horror as it dawned on her. In her panic, she’d turned left out of the carpark, back onto the road she’d come in on. The road from Piama. Griffin would be coming from the other direction, from Barnforth. Griffin would arrive at the hangar and Jackson would be long gone.

  How badly hurt was he? Would he flee or would he chase her? She’d have at least a kilometre head start by the time he got going, maybe more if his leg was really bad. But how did he know she was at the hangar? Think, Jones!

  GPS tracker. He’d stuck one on the car somewhere. Of course, why not? He’d had plenty of opportunity.

  Where to go? Around the hills and back towards Barnforth to the shopping centre? Lots of people. He could still get her and she’d be putting others at risk. Drive to Noosa? Or better still, Gympie—there’d be a police station there. She checked the fuel gauge. Half-full, more than enough.

  She tried to think herself into Jackson’s situation. He knows that I know he killed Helen. He’s been paid to kill me. That’s two reasons to hunt me down, two reasons to finish me. But no one knows Doncaster hired him. There was probably a middle man, a handler of some kind—so maybe Jackson doesn’t even know who his client is. It would be smart to ensure there was nothing connecting them. Was that something Jackson, a professional, might consider worth protecting? He had to have future clients that trusted him to never give them away.

  But she didn’t know. How could she know? This criminal world, it might as well be another planet.

  The Commodore hurtled towards the first bend around the hills, the wind roared through the open back door. Sarge was sticking to the other side of the seat: his back pressed against the passenger’s side, he was tentatively raising his nose towards the open door and into the airflow, mouth open. She geared down and braked hard for the first bend, the car juddering as it slowed, Sarge thudding into the back of the front seat, then she slammed her right hand down on the wheel, and the car jumped sideways, slamming the door shut. She pushed down on the accelerator for the short stretch to the next bend.

  She could take the highway and head south, to Gympie or Noosa and a proper police station. But the fact would remain: there would be nothing to tie Doncaster to Helen’s death. He’d get away with it. The wrongness of that wrenched at her thoughts. The rich man exchanging other people’s lives for more riches. Sitting on his money pile above the law and secretly screwing over ordinary mortals, beautiful people like Helen.

  Clem had to forge the connection, bridge the gap between Doncaster and Jackson.

  She thought through it all again. Jackson could track her, follow her. That meant she could lead him to wherever she wanted him to be. The GPS was like an invisible rope between them. The idea struck her, like a piece of four by two to the back of the head. What if she led Jackson to Doncaster? Might that throw them off? Force the two of them into error? Jackson might not follow her, precisely to avoid the connection with his client. But then at least he’d be off her tail. Win win.

  She threw the car around a corner and into another straight, then patted the front zip section in her backpack. It was still there. There could yet be a way to nail Doncaster.

  Her palms were sweating on the wheel, her heart raced with each corner, holding her breath as she concentrated into it, then inhaling sharply. She geared down for another bend, braked, accelerated, the chassis swinging wide and the wheels screeching. Slow it down, Jones. You crash, Jackson catches up, you die. The sun was glaring. Her sunglasses had fallen off at some point in the chaos so she flipped the visor down, sat taller in the seat, slipping her head into the shade.

  She cleared the last of the bends, passed the big green sign—intersection two hundred metres up ahead. Turn right for Gympie and Noosa and Brisbane and any kind of civilisation. Straight ahead to the Piama dead end.

  She blinked hard, swallowed, planted her foot down and roared past.

  He lifted his leg up onto the running board, groaning. The bitch cop had got him in the kneecap. He’d never felt so much pain in his life. He stopped, panting, sweat dripping from his face, waiting for the burning to ease, then forced his leg bent and up into the cab, screaming in pain as he manoeuvred it down into the footwell.

  He’d shot a cop. ‘A fucking cop!’ he roared to the dirty windscreen.

  Now he really needed that money. That and his fake passport were the only things that could save him now.

  He got the Hilux into drive and used his left leg to work the accelerator, checking the tracking app as he got onto the road. He was doing around a hundred k’s when he felt a thump, then the vibration started. A slight shudder in the wheel. Oh, you’re kidding, you’re fucking kidding—flat tyre.

  You’ve got her on the GPS. Just take it easy and keep driving, it might last the distance.

  He dropped back to sixty. In the hills, he was down to a crawl, trying to keep the tyre on the wheel. Then, as he pulled out onto the straight stretch he heard the flapping. Strips of tyre whipping around, probably inside the wheel housing. Brakes, suspension, who knew.

  He kept driving, looking out for another unoccupied car.

  How had things gone so bad on this job?

  He swore to God it was going to be his last. His very last.

  CHAPTER 23

  Clem pulled up at the gate and pressed the buzzer. The green creeper that hung in lustrous strands over the edge of the concrete wall made her think of tentacles, tendrils and how would she get out of here once she was in. A cockatoo shrieked somewhere far away and Sarge shifted from one paw to the other on the back seat, still anxious.

  Doncaster’s voice: ‘Yes?’

  Good, the maid wasn’t in. ‘Hello. It’s Clementine Jones. Can I come in please?’ There was a long silence. She’d dived off his yacht, destroyed his dinghy with a spear gun. He knew that she knew.

  The intercom clicked: ‘You’ve got a nerve.’ Then a clunk. He’d hung up. He was referring to the inflatable, still pretending he’s got nothing to do with Helen’s death. Fucking jerk must think I’m stupid—or he�
�s untouchable. Or both.

  She buzzed again, checking her rear-view mirror, expecting Jackson to arrive at any moment. There was no response. She held the buzzer down, let it loose, pressed it again, counting to five before releasing her finger.

  ‘What on earth do you want?’

  ‘I think we should talk, Andrew. I need to explain,’ she said, leaning across the open car window to speak into the intercom. ‘And I have some information for you. It’s about the resort.’

  She could almost hear the cogs ticking over.

  ‘What are you gonna do? Crash your car into my house, take out a garden bed?’ he growled.

  ‘I’m sorry about your dinghy. I really am. It was all a bit crazy, I had a lot going on.’ Oh Lord, this ridiculous, make-believe dance. ‘I’ll leave the car out on the road if you like.’

  A pause. Would he be calling someone? Jackson’s middle man? Not if he knew Jackson had a GPS tracker on her car. But he probably wouldn’t know about that. He’d have gone out of his way to avoid knowing any details: to maintain the clear air between him and the hired help.

  ‘I can help you with the covenant,’ she said. ‘I have inside information. It’ll help you with the resort.’ The lies were so fluent. So much practice.

  Another pause. Then: ‘Leave the car outside. Walk in and don’t bring anything with you, no bags.’

  ‘Got it,’ she said, with the smallest of fist pumps behind the wheel.

  The buzzer sounded and the heavy iron gate began to roll sideways. She took something no bigger than a ten cent piece from the front pocket of her bag and stuffed it in her pocket. She left the windows halfway down for Sarge and got out of the car, walking through the gate as it closed behind her. Sarge gave a couple of woofs towards her back.